Reading Lear in a Night Gale
Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold windı
but my roofıs secure, my bed warm.
Not having quarrelled with my children;
lacking property to divide;
not much given to angry cursing
(yet for sure it lurks within me)...
well, few ever would have felt why!
itıs our own story!ı How unlike us!ı
I hear us say. Do extremes, like this
or Oedipus reveal whatıs hidden
in our averageness? Safe now, far
from theatres (where poetic English
is loudly blinded, mutilated,
melodramatically murdered),
let alone some fierce dark Outdoors,
tonightıs storm being loud but dry.
Our demented - under sedation.
No-one stumbles this way in despair.
Outside it hasnıt thundered; so far
the trees (many are old) stand strong,
letting rip over my roof lesser
fragments only. Now stark utterance
fills the mindıs theatre; cruelty
and terror are on the rampage.
Why let them re-enact themselves?
The gale is sinking to exhaustion.
Pity speaks, blind loyalty; dying
loving-kindness outlives the rage.
The moon reappears, its former
reassurance shrunken.
Mindıs curtain-fall; I sample still
the green mantle of the standing poolı.
1pm Wednesday 5 September 2007
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
|